


The Deserter's Song

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brainwashing, Community: be_compromised, F/M, Mission Fic, POV Female Character, Partnership, Remix, Spy Natasha Romanov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha thought that if she could count on anything, it would be Clint's trust in her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deserter's Song

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Checkmate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131694) by [hanorganaas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanorganaas/pseuds/hanorganaas). 



> Written for be_compromised remix. I was really excited to write for someone who loves angst as much as I do, and to get more experience flexing my spy!fic muscles. 
> 
> Thank you to [samalander](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander) for beta and support, and [andibeth82](http://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82) for cheerleading!

“You sure about this?” Clint asks for what feels like the hundredth time. He keeps his head down, so his face will be difficult to identify for anyone walking by their car. They’re unobtrusively parked at the curb, the failing light of dusk turning the whole street a dull monochrome gray. Natasha can still feel his gaze on her, though, knows he’s watching her in his peripheral vision.

She keeps her own eyes focused on the door of the bar two blocks up to their left. According to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s intel, it’s run by a man named Borislav, a man who still makes regular appearances in her nightmares, in the snatches of memory that assert themselves when she’s least expecting it. She remembers him as short and graying, what probably once was muscle turning to a hefty roll of fat around his waist. He had strong arms, though, and solid hands that were equally good with shooting guns and throwing punches. Natasha remembers the stale-tobacco stink of his breath as he leaned close to whisper in her ear, threat and praise and orders all wrapped into one visceral thread in her mind. He got out, she’s learned, when the Red Room fell, and now he’s trying to relaunch the operation in his back rooms, in his basement. She doesn’t plan on letting that happen. 

“What if I’m not?” she counters, her irritation flaring. It’s a variation in her response; she’s said yes every time he’s asked before, but that apparently hasn’t satisfied him. “What do you suggest we do then? Run back to Hill and tell her I’m too afraid? That sounds productive. And I’m not the one who’s afraid here, Barton. I’m the one who wants to do my job.”

He sighs, tips his head to the side ever so slightly, so that she can see the lines of tension in his face. “I’m not _afraid_ ,” he insists. “I’m just--Do you even remember what you were like when you got out of there? You didn’t know who you were half the time.”

“No,” she says, her tone laced with biting sarcasm. “I’d forgotten. You’re right, let’s just leave and let Borislav get on with his business. No harm in that, right?” 

“I don’t want you to go through that again,” says Clint, looking up to meet her eyes finally. There’s something in his gaze she can’t read, a darkness that has nothing to do with the approaching night. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’m not _going through it_ again,” she sneers, giving a final check to the comm wire, all but invisible behind her ear, buried deep under her long curls. She’s unarmed as planned; whatever weapons she needs, she’ll have to take once she’s inside. “I don’t want _anyone_ going through it again. I’m here to make sure of that. Aren’t you?” Maybe she just isn’t used to having anyone concerned for her wellbeing, she thinks. But right now his reluctance seems a lot like doubt. 

He says nothing this time, his lips pressed together in a thin line of worry.

“Just stay out of the way,” says Natasha, when it’s clear he isn’t going to respond, and she climbs out of the car without another word.

* * *

The inside of the bar is even dimmer than the street outside, and the sort of smoky that makes her eyes burn. It’s also practically empty--not surprising, really, seeing as it’s just after seven on a Tuesday evening. Not exactly prime business time. Not exactly a great location, either, if this bar were anything more than a front. _If._

Natasha surveys the place for a moment, considers going up to the bartender and asking to speak to Borislav. She decides she isn’t quite ready to show her hand, though, not when she isn’t sure her mark is here. Instead she takes a seat on one of the stools, orders a shot of vodka she probably ought to ignore.

 _”You’re not going to drink that,”_ Clint’s voice comes through, whispered static in her ear. _”Seriously, don’t drink it. Terrible idea.”_ He must be in position now, if he can see the glass in front of her. She allows herself to picture him for a moment, crouched on the rooftop across the street, watching her through the barrel of his scope. It’s equal parts reassuring and irritating, the way he tends to babble in her comms when he’s on backup. She’s never quite sure whether he’s trying to support her or himself. 

Natasha’s considering picking up the glass just to mess with him when she instinctively senses a presence over her left shoulder, looks up just in time to see two heavy-set men approaching her. She thinks she recognizes them from a lifetime ago, though names don’t come to her mind. She’s been recognized, then. Excellent. 

_”Stay where I can see you,”_ Clint hisses, as she gets to her feet and gives the two men her most winning smile. _”If you go underground, there’s nothing I can do. Stay where I can see you!”_

She shuts out his whispered protests as the welcoming committee ushers her toward the door in the back. It closes with a heavy thud onto a windowless hallway, no sightlines available, a tiny crackle warning her of poor reception on the comms. But she’s been expecting that all along.

* * *

Deep down, Natasha has to admit that some part of her has been expecting a bunker, an echo of the dirty cement walls and floors that made the boundaries of her childhood, though she knows this building is wrong for that. The men lead her a few yards down the hallway--it isn’t a big place, she knows that much from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s aerial surveillance and the building plans they’ve obtained--before opening another heavy door on her left. They wait for her to enter, but don’t follow. 

The room looks more like a drug den than a training facility for the next generation of killers. There’s what appears to be a stripper pole in the middle of it, surrounded by shards of broken, dirty dishes strewn across the floor. Various articles of clothing are crumpled among the dishes, bearing stains Natasha doesn’t wish to identify. The whole place stinks of sour beer, old smoke, and unwashed bodies. 

It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the lighting--so dark things appear first as silhouettes--but then she catches sight of Borislav, slouched back, spread on a dilapidated couch pressed up against the far wall. He’s watching her with the beady dark eyes she remembers, and now that she’s aware of it, his gaze feels like the cold, moist tendrils of a sea monster creeping down the back of her neck. It’s only been two years since she saw him last, but he seems to have aged nearly a decade, his face sunken and his belly more prominent than ever. 

“Natalia,” he says, a leer splitting his face as she crosses the room, “you’ve _grown_.” He isn’t even a little subtle about the way he rakes his gaze over her body, lingering on her breasts. 

She remembers his preferences--girls who look breakable, young. She’s chosen her dress with all of his weaknesses in mind, gauzy pale blue fabric that puts her body’s curves on display while hiding the sinew, the strength underneath. It had made Clint laugh when he walked by as she curled her hair in the mirror. He’d muttered something about _delicate flower_ and she’d threatened to break his fingers. Now she can’t help but feel pleased with herself and her choice.

“Do you like what you see?” she asks, the syllables of Russian feeling oddly thick on her tongue after so many months of wearing her American accent like armor. She raises an eyebrow, takes a step closer. 

Borislav crosses his arms, makes an attempt at looking disinterested. “Last I heard, you were a traitor.”

“I was young,” says Natasha, letting her voice creep upward in pitch. “And stupid. Thought I could make it on my own.” It’s a risk: it’s only been a few months since S.H.I.E.L.D. began letting her take field assignments, but there’s always the chance that word of her involvement’s leaked to the intelligence community, that he’ll see straight through her story.

“And now?” he asks, still apparently unsatisfied.

“Now I hear you’re rebuilding the program,” she says carefully, uncertainty and just the right amount of wistful hope coloring her tone. “And I want you to take me back. If--you can forgive me for running.”

“You want to be mine?” asks Borislav, the filthy grin returning. Subtlety has never been his strong suit, thinks Natasha, and she has to resist the urge to make a snide comment. 

“Yes,” she agrees, taking another step forward, so she’s standing close enough to feel his sour breath on her face. “Please?”

“You know, I always take care of my girls.” The damn smile gets even wider, makes Natasha wonder for a moment whether she might be able to fit her entire fist into his mouth. She leans in as he touches her face, though, lets him pull her down to the couch to sit in his lap like a child. 

She’s already jumped past the sex in her mind, collapsed it to a singular action, like taking a shot with her gun. She’s moving on autopilot now, her fingers working buttons and zippers and sweat-damp skin as she considers the kill. There’s a cyanide capsule concealed in the locket around her neck; she could shove it into his mouth, force him to break it with his teeth and swallow. Or she could strangle him, could gag him with one of the dirty rags on the floor, smother the life from his body. 

She doesn’t get a chance to decide, though, as the door flies open with a speed that shouldn’t be possible for such a heavy slab of wood. It hits the wall with a bang that causes a little explosion of adrenaline in the pit of her stomach and sends her stumbling to her feet, the air cold against her back where Borislav unzipped her dress. 

The goons from the bar are standing in the doorway, holding Clint between them. They’ve got his hands behind his back, his bow confiscated, and a bruise already darkening around his left eye. He says nothing, but Natasha can feel the desperation in his gaze as he looks up at her, like he’s counting on her to be his salvation. He must have gotten too close, she realizes, must have been looking for a way to keep her in his sights. 

“Look what we found,” says the grunt on the right, and kicks Clint across the back of the knees so that he sags to the floor with a noise of pain. 

She has less than a second to make the decision. She could drop her cover, could try to free Clint, fight her way out of here. But they’re outnumbered and unarmed, with no way of knowing how many others the back rooms of this place might hold. And she isn’t finished with this job, either. She has a momentary flash of memory, of training on dirty concrete floors, waking to the sound of others girls crying in the darkness, of blood hot and sticky on her hands. 

Natasha arranges her face into the mask of empty-eyed cruelty she once used to define her success, and turns back to Borislav. “A present for you. Won’t stop following me around. I thought we could use him for a little entertainment.”

* * *

Natasha forces her emotions to fall away as she watches the next few minutes unfold. The grunts drag Clint into the middle of the room, bind his hands and tie him to the stripper pole like it really is some sort of sick private show. They throw a couple more half-hearted jabs at him, leave him bleeding from the lip and the nose, though she’s pretty sure they haven’t done serious damage. Or at least that’s what she’s telling herself. 

Borislav is still watching her, clearly viewing this as a test, still suspicious of her, though that’s really the least of her concerns right now. She’s acutely aware of the way Clint is looking at her, betrayal and confusion burning hot in his face. 

She circles him once, slowly, taking the time to survey his injuries, to figure out where she can hit him without hurting him too badly. She’ll need his help when it’s time to fight their way out of here. Natasha stops in front of him again, kicks him across the shins with enough force to draw a yelp of pain out of him. She follows it up with a slap across the face, a knee to his ribs. She stops hearing the sounds he’s making, forces herself to keep going, to focus only on her cover, on what needs to be done. Natasha isn’t sure how much time passes, lost in the act of violence, but she knows by the way her own muscles burn that it has not been insignificant. 

The other two men are speaking in hushed tones with Borislav when she crosses the room back to their little group. They suck at stage whispering; she picks up the gist of their conversation just fine. They’re doubting her still, debating how to make her prove herself, and she gets the sense that they mean much more than a show of beating her partner. 

“Kill him,” Borislav orders with a theatrical wave of his hand. He pulls a long blade from under the cushions of the sordid couch and presses the hilt into her palm. “And let’s get on with it.”

The knife is exactly the sort of weapon she needs, and she suppresses the urge to smile as she wraps her fingers around the cold metal, nods demurely. Clint’s bow is sitting in the corner of the room, and the fools have left his quiver still strapped to his back. They’ve gotten cocky, she thinks, and that will make it all the more satisfying to kill them. 

She makes her own show of crossing the room, watches Clint stiffen against the pole as she raises the knife. It’s then that the realization sinks in, the horrible knowledge settling fully in the pit of her stomach: he actually thinks she is planning to kill him. She has no way to ask, no way to reassure him, but she can see the certainty in his face, in the set of his jaw as he tugs at the rope binding his hands. Anger and hurt burn through her as she presses the blade to his throat--not hard enough to break his skin--at Borislav, at her makers, at Clint and the doubt he apparently still harbors. 

“Natasha,” he breathes, his eyes bright with unshed tears of fear and pain. “Natasha, you’re not _you_ right now. I know that, okay? But--But I want to believe that you’ll get away again. Get back to being you. So I want you to know that I love you. And that I always have. I’m sorry it has to end this way.”

She pauses at that, taken aback not by his confession, but by the fact that he’d choose _now_ , that he thinks her so far gone, so out of control. That he thinks she has ever been so far gone as to lose her awareness entirely. She wonders, suddenly, if that’s what he’s needed to tell himself, if that’s the only way he’s been able to accept her.

“I’m sorry too,” she says finally, not acknowledging the rest of what he’s said.

Clint closes his eyes, then, swallowing against the blade, and Natasha curses inwardly. She’s been hoping to be able to signal him, to clue him in to her plan without having to say anything aloud. No chance of that now, though, not judging by the way she can see the vein in his temple throbbing with his pulse. Instead she looks over her shoulder at the men, gives them a little conspiratorial smile before she leans in and kisses Clint, the knife still pressed to his throat. His whole body jerks, then, and he opens his eyes, whimpering softly against her lips.

“In a second I’m going to cut you loose,” she whispers against his ear, hearing the realization dawn on him as his breathing shifts, a little of the tension going out of his body. “You go for your bow, and then we take them down.”

“Natasha,” he says frantically, but she ignores him, pulls away. 

She keeps her back turned to Borislav as she mouths a silent countdown, hoping Clint will be able to keep it together as she flies into action.

* * *

Clint is curled up in the back of the plane by the time she finishes her preliminary debrief with Coulson. His cuts are bandaged, and he has a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders, though it doesn’t seem to be doing anything for the way he’s shaking. She pauses, meeting his eyes carefully, fighting down a sickening wave of guilt at what she’s done to him. 

“You--” he stammers, not so much an accusation as an exhalation of disbelief. “You put a fucking knife to my throat. And I’m pretty sure you broke my ribs.”

“Yes,” says Natasha, then softens a little, sitting beside him and noticing that he still doesn’t move away. “I did. And you know what they would have done, if I’d let them take control? They would have broken all of your fingers. Blinded you. Broken your bow over your head and stabbed you through the gut with the pieces. Your ribs will heal. So will the bruises.”

He screws his eyes shut at those images, shudders violently. For a moment she thinks he might actually be sick before he forces himself to exhale and swallow. “I--fuck. And you--You saved me.”

“You thought I’d kill you,” says Natasha, because she can’t just ignore it, can’t just let it go. “You actually thought I’d do it.”

“Not you,” says Clint, shivering again. “The--the old you. The you that was brainwashed. I thought--I thought they’d gotten back into your head somehow.”

“The things I did,” she says firmly, “I chose to do. I did them to stay alive, and I did them because I was surrounded by monsters. But they were _my choices_ , Clint. I was never anyone’s puppet. Not like you thought today.”

“Okay,” he says stubbornly, though she isn’t sure he’s really heard her. “But what I said--I meant it. Every word of it.”

“I know,” says Natasha, a strange cold sadness settling on her back. “You’re in love with me. I’ve known for a long time. Months. But--I’m not sure you know who I am.”

“You’re my partner.”

“And you honestly thought I’d kill you,” she counters. “You were questioning my ability to cope from the start.”

“What now?” he asks, clearing his throat. He doesn’t deny or apologize, she notes. Then again, she isn’t going to apologize for the injuries she’s given him. That isn’t the sort of people they are. 

Natasha shakes her head, reaches out and rests her hand against his back, a silent offering of comfort. He stiffens a little before catching himself, leaning into her. 

“Now we move on,” she says firmly. “And you think about what I just told you. If the person you love is really who I am. Because that? That’s a risk I can’t take without being sure.”

“I am sure,” says Clint, then sighs. “I will be sure.”

She smiles sadly, and decides that for once she hopes his stubbornness will outweigh her doubts.


End file.
